


make it hard to breathe

by cashewdani



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Asthma, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:38:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cashewdani/pseuds/cashewdani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bed is white and wide and Niall wants to stay in it forever before his body has even touched the sheets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	make it hard to breathe

**Author's Note:**

> miss_bennie knows what she did. I don't so much.

Niall probably smoked too many cigarettes tonight, he realizes, catching a cough into his shoulder as they get out of the cab, but every time Harry had laughed he’d felt like he needed a drag just to have something to do with his hands. And his mouth. And Harry had laughed a lot, all flushed cheeks and scrunched up eyes, making Niall feel too warm and a little out of sorts.

That heady there’s not enough air in the room even though they’re outside on the street feeling slams into him again as Harry turns, all dimples and curls and ridiculously stretched out words because he’s had enough pints that he’d been singing Billy Joel in the back of the car. “You comin’?” he asks, and Niall feels like the question is the verbal equivalent of syrup.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, clearing his throat, and Harry’s laughing again before stopping to take a picture with a girl who’s nearly in tears.

\---

Harry’s hotel room is freezing. He has this obsession with turning the air conditioning as low as it can possibly go before he leaves and it makes absolutely no sense to Niall. Even though it feels like all the blood in Niall’s body is directly under his skin, it is still too cold in this room.

Which he says, rubbing at his arms, and Harry watches him, in this slow, underwater kind of way. Niall can’t really tell any more if what Harry’s doing is smiling.

And then he’s pulling his shirt off, giving Niall a second to try and catch his breath while Harry’s face is inside the black t-shirt that somehow costs more than their very extensive bar tab. His necklaces clink together like ice in a glass, and Niall is thirsty and cold and very much wants to see if the theater masks taste the same.

He walks closer, ghosting his fingertips over Harry’s skin, remembering when it was as uninterrupted as his own, wondering how much more it’s going to change.

Harry bends in and kisses him near his jaw, this spot that Harry loves even though Niall’s stared at it in the mirror and can’t figure out what makes it more impressive than any of the rest of him. Niall parts his lips, angling his neck to the side, coaxing Harry’s warm mouth to meander over more of his goose bumps. It already feels like he’s breathing too quickly. Shallow and with little purpose. Harry mouths the tendons of his throat, pulled taut, teeth and tongue, and there’s going to be a mark.

Niall’s going to wear that mark.

Harry gets his hands up under Niall’s tank, and he feels his muscles tense, skitter somehow from and towards the touch at the same time. He exhales, shakily, as a shiver slinks down his spine and once it starts, there’s no stopping it. The room is still frigid and Harry is like electricity wrapped up in human form and it’s no wonder that Niall feels like he’s never going to stop shaking.

“Why can’t I see my breath in here,” he asks, the question out in the room before he even fully realizes he’s spoken. “I feel like I should be able to see my breath.”

And Harry chuckles, right into Niall’s shoulder, the vibrations seemingly skipping his central nervous system and immediately hitting his dick. “Get in the bed,” Harry says, pushing against him with both palms, his hands spread expansively over Niall’s chest. He’s still wearing his shirt, the fabric stretching against Harry’s force and Niall feels like a child, like it’s ridiculous to be this overstimulated while he’s got his full kit on and they haven’t done much of anything.

The bed is white and wide and Niall wants to stay in it forever before his body has even touched the sheets. Just him and Harry, making their own world under the blankets, everything only softly lit and warm. 

He feels even younger than before as he and Harry crawl underneath the duvet, giggling, kissing one another and shedding their clothes.

Inside the cocoon, inhaling and exhaling into one another’s mouths, against one another’s collarbones and stomachs, like the only air they have belongs to the other, Niall forgets about ever being cold. He goes red and hot and damp, panting into the heavy air, speaking nonsense as Harry only barely touches his cock, apparently giddy on how much he’s teasing him.

But just when Niall thinks he’s going to have to actually start to beg for it, Harry changes the angle, shifts his body so they’re suddenly flush, interlocked, and Niall has never heard before a noise like the one he makes.

He looks up at Harry, the swallows so dark against the pink of his skin, sheened with sweat, and he feels like those birds, like he just wants to fly towards the place that holds Harry together, especially as he is starting to come apart.

Harry slips his hand between them, that even bigger feeling hand, and wraps it around them both. All Niall can do is gasp and and try to latch on to the slickness of Harry’s back.

And then he’s coming, all the air rushing out from him in a burst, like a punch to the gut, and he thinks Harry finishes too, but he’s too distracted by the way that his breath doesn’t seem to be coming back.

“Hey, you okay?” Harry asks, and there’s a sense of panic there that Niall can’t understand until he realizes that he’s making a sound like a slowly deflating balloon.

Harry throws the duvet off, the air from the rest of room rushing over him in an arctic burst, but it doesn’t help all that much. He just starts shivering again, the sweat on his skin making him feel clammy and sick. “Yeah,” he wheezes out, trying to push himself up on his elbows, remember where his inhaler is.

He closes his eyes and tries to stay calm, to relax, because panic will not help the tightness in his chest, but all he can think about is how the tabloids are going to read he died from an asthma attack, covered in his own jizz, at the hands of Harry Styles, international sex god and pop sensation.

But more accurately, he can see when he opens his eyes again, Harry Styles, the guy with competent hands who is shaking Niall’s inhaler, uncapping it and slipping it between his lips. Telling him, “Deep breath now,” while pushing down on the pump, which Niall appreciates because of how much his own hands are shaking.

He waits a moment and then asks, “You need another?” Niall reaches up, puts his own hand over Harry’s, and presses down for another hit before removing the tube from his mouth.

“Thanks,” he chokes out as Harry pushes the hair back from Niall’s forehead, soothing.

“I know I’m breathtaking, Horan, but come on.”

Niall laughs, even though it makes him start coughing in a way that really hurts. And then Harry is kissing his temple, murmuring apologies, telling him he’s going to get him a glass of water and a wet flannel.

Niall definitely smoked too many cigarettes tonight, but he doesn’t regret it.


End file.
